Thursday, June 25, 2009

When he returned home he foundthe toy soldiers had left,one hundred plastic mencarrying their belongingsin sacks thrown over the shoulderlike a retreating army carriesthe essentials of running away:extra socks, blanket, stale bread,wallets taken from the deadto be returned as a consolation prize. Hadn’t he nailed the windows shut?Tied the mean dog to the door?He began to notice other things were missing.Laces from the black shoe under the chair,its eyes empty, agape,a dead man’s toothless mouth. There was no conversation,there was just the sound of a womanbrushing her long black hair,a car coming to a stop,crows flying off the telephone wires,dust lifting from their wings.Later, he’ll tell a friend that’s what it felt like,dust lifting from the wings.This was how he invented forgetting.

Friday, June 12, 2009

I wasn’t sure if she kissed meor simply used her lipsto push my face away. Yes,the moist warmth was enjoyable,but when my head was forcedback over the top of the sofathe intention grayed.

Earlier that day I plannedto quit my job and pursuea career writing romantic novelsthat would be confused as memoirs.But if I couldn’t distinguishbetween a kiss and a pushwhat chance do I haveof writing romantic novelsthat would be confused as memoirs?

After the kiss, and I preferto think it was a kiss,she sank back into the pillowsand watched meout of the corner of her eye.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

What’s the life expectancy of a poem? Twenty-seven minutes. Yes, the life expectancy of a poem is only twenty-seven minutes. Most poems, according to the International Poetry Registry and Administration in Geneva, Switzerland, are not written by poets. Lines of poetry are unknowingly scribbled by all sorts of people on all sorts of things, and immediately thrown away. Of course, poets would say that a poem is immortal. Twenty-seven minutes is an average*. Considering that this average takes into account Horace, Sappho and Shakespeare you could probably guess that millions of poems race from birth to trash in seconds. Most go to their fates never knowing they were poems. For the vast majority, that’s as should be. For the minority, sadness. Think of all the great lines of poetry you and I will never read! It’s upsetting to think that there are people who don’t know that they’ve created something beautiful.

Darker poems live longer. A suspicion on my part. Poems first composed in notebooks live longer still. Fact. Manual typewriters have the same effect. I hope their scarcity doesn’t bode badly for poetry. Wondering about the life expectancy of a poem while writing is similar to having sex and wondering about the life expectancy of the possible progeny. Since poems live longer than ideas it’s best to write without them.

So, exactly how many poems are you expected to write in a lifetime? How long will you live? Keep each pair of shoes you’ve ever worn and you’ll live forever. Each night before sleep, take five deep breaths, hold the last breath for seventeen seconds and you’ll live to 102**. On a small Greek island they believe the color blue is essential to longevity.

If someone neatly tears your poem from a magazine and carries it in their pocket for two days you’ll live an extra week. If someone memorizes your poem you gain an extra month. If the memorization is the result of a school assignment you gain nothing.

A few years ago an article in the New York Times discussed the life expectancy of various types of artists. It was a slow news day. Poets have the shortest life expectancy. No surprise. At least half a dozen people sent me the article.

* Remove all the poems in the Norton Anthology from the equation, what then would the average life expectancy be? I called the International Poetry Registry and Administration in Geneva, Switzerland, and left a message with a secretary. After not hearing back for three weeks I wrote to them, included an SASE, still no reply. Some of my poems are twenty-five years old. Though none of my good, or what I think of as good, have hit this ripe old age.** You must start this by your twenty-ninth birthday for it to work.

a little about me

I'm a poet, freelance ad guy, writer, and photographer. I worked for 14 years in the L.A. office of DDB as an associate creative director. I also teach poetry at UCLA Extension; and when I’m not teaching there I teach copywriting at USC’s Annenberg School of Communication. Previously, I taught copywriting at Art Center College of Design in Pasadena for 25 semesters, and at Otis College of Art for 3. My professional life as an ad guy is pretty intense and limits teaching to one night week, though I really enjoy it. I've been lucky in the advertising world and have managed to win many awards including a Gold Pencil from the One Show and a Cannes Lion. My first full-length book of poetry, The Soup of Something Missing, published by Bear Star Press, and The Invention of Fiction, my chapbook was published Hollyridge Press. Sarabande Books published my second full-length book, Death Obscura! My next book, I'm No Longer Troubled By the Extravagance, will be published by BOA next year.

My UCLA Extension Class

interviews

Poeticdiversityinterviewed me a while back. You'll also find an interview, and I'm using the word interview carelessly, on Alexis Orgera's The Bog Poetic.

Beth Spencer of Bear Star Press interviewed me for her blog. Take a look.

Advertising Portfolio

Take a look.

Commercial from the Super Bowl

This is a commercial I wrote that appeared on the Super Bowl and won advertising awards around the world, and is in the premanent collection of a museum. In a special on television commercials, CBS said it was the fourth funniest Super Bowl commerical of all time. Another network said it was the second funniest commercial of the year.